


I Want To Be Pretty

by Princess_Piggles



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Drinking, F/M, Gender Issues, Introspection, M/M, Minor Violence, POV First Person, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, only sort of, thoughts heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Piggles/pseuds/Princess_Piggles
Summary: Korekiyo engages in some irresponsible behavior for gender euphoric purposes. It doesn't work out entirely well or entirely badly.
Relationships: Shinguji Korekiyo/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	I Want To Be Pretty

Humanity endures much for the pursuit of beauty. Beauty in our world, our craft, ourselves. So much of the struggle seems pointless to me, humanity is already so beautiful effortlessly. But there is an aspect of which I understand and identify with strongly. I want to be pretty. Not beautiful, pretty. An important distinction in context and one that highlights the physical nature of the desire. I want, when people look at me, for them to think, at least occasionally, “she’s pretty.” 

There are more important concerns, even with my physicality. A tribute to my sister, a focus on my health, taking care of all that she gave to me. But sometimes the uniform doesn’t suit, only a short dress will do. My body of scars doesn’t display well, but there are ways to cover some things without others, and if the reality of my body is disappointing, typically when it comes fully into view, my partner for the night is too invested, or perhaps too intoxicated to care all that much. A few times this has worked out dangerously, of course, how could it not? But that’s not been all that dissuading. A few harsh words, a blow or two, one instance of “forcing” me into what I’d already agreed to, in the grand scheme of things, how could these be important to me?

There’s a hole in my heart, as it were. I wonder if I was born that way, I have no recollection of being different, but it has substantially widened since her passing. She was what filled my heart, so it makes sense that her lack would create such emptiness. But I’ve always been empty. Ready to be filled up with what she wanted, and now ready to be filled up with “love” let’s call it, if only for a night. The ones who say “I love you” are my favorite, especially if they believe it. I love them too, and not just for making me ache a little less. 

I wonder if this sounds as though I use them- the indiscreet men who take home girls in bars without asking many questions. I believe the arrangement to be mutually beneficial, but I do go with a purpose, and one I’m not honest about. I don’t want to be alone. That’s first and foremost. I’ll get into bed with anyone who’ll let me stay there til morning, but also, I’ll feel lovely, desirable, feminine. I’ll feel pretty. 

My musings come to a halt as I step out of the shower. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too introspective, especially when my thoughts would suit memoirs better than casual self observation. But there’s work to be done, which quickly pulls my focus. My hair, gently dried, combed, then plaited back to hold it in place while I do the rest of my outfit. I’ve shaved everything, my skin is smooth, and softening as I rub lotion into it. The scars on my legs stand out more than I’d like, but a few dabs of concealer, and we’re “off to the races.” My nails need attention as well, tonight’s color is red. I love red, it’s passion and richness, they’re odd for me to take on, excepting my usual lipstick, but it’s an ostentatious sort of evening. 

Once I’ve completed my ritual ablutions and ornamentations, I stand in front of my mirror and gaze upon the result. I’m going mask-less, in a short, fluffy red dress and black stockings, which have red bows stitched onto the tops, such that they sit on the outsides of my thighs, just over my knees. The skirt sits a few inches on top of them, such that a band of skin stands out, drawing the mind to what might be just above it. My shoes for the evening are sparkly flats, as I’m tall enough without assistance. It’s a challenge to make myself seem smaller, but remaining seated, then lying makes it work well enough. My hair has finished drying in loose waves which frame my face in delicate curves, and my make up is neat and intentional. The overall effect suggests what it’s meant to, feminine company is available as a commodity, and I’m flexible with what I’ll provide, particularly if I’m given a smile, a compliment, or a drink. Dressing to be taken advantage of… it’s an odd process, but one I’ve done well, in this case. 

I pack a small purse for the evening. It’s a white, sequined bag, more frilly than functional, but it will hold my phone, wallet, keys, as well as lipstick, a small pack of moistened wipes, and a bottle of perfume. The bar I’m going to is a quick jaunt down the street, and my presence attracts attention. Whistles, shouts, one yell of “How much?” from a car. Probably less than he’d think, but he doesn’t stop to find out. 

I’ve been staying in this region for a while, and I’m known at the bar, but only in this persona. I do like to frequent such establishments in my other presentations, but I haven’t happened to want to yet. The doorman smiles at me and gestures me inside, he’s been hinting his interest, but that would lack anonymity, in a sense. He does see me regularly. As does the bartender, though she wouldn’t work for my purposes, in any case. She’s got beautiful blond hair, with dark roots, and small, frizzy curls. Her lipstick matches mine, nearly exactly, but by the time I see her, her mascara is nearly always smudged. She wears a black button up shirt, and though the buttons over the chest strain, they don’t break, and jeans. I notice all of this because we talk somewhat regularly. 

“Hey Kiyo,” she smiles, “How’s life?” 

“Quite well,” my smile is mild, I try to keep it less expressive as I don’t have my mask. “Yours?” 

“I’m still here,” she’s started making my drink, the first I ever order. A strawberry daiquiri, made strong, with a good deal of whipped cream and a cherry on top. They’re tasty, and I don’t have to admit that it’s strong- she knows to make mine that way, even if the man ordering it doesn’t say so. 

“How did your daughter’s recital go?” I’m still hovering, fidgeting with my bag, so I may as well talk, and I do care. She’s touched that I remember and smiles. 

“Really well! She’s definitely getting better, she should, she’s practiced a lot. I have to remind her to sleep, she practically lives at the piano,” she slides my drink to me, then points at a salary-man over by the wall, “I bet you’d have good luck with him. His boss just left a little bit ago and he’s had a lot.” 

“Thank you,” our shared smile is conspiratory. I believe she tacitly assumes that I charge and she’s helping me with a customer. I do get paid sometimes, it’s not an uncommon assumption and I don’t refuse the money, but I don’t ask for it either. I make my way over to him. 

“Heeey,” he slurs immediately, brightening and sitting up straighter in response to seeing me. His eyes move over my dress and linger on my thighs. It’s enough to make me blush, but I can hide behind my drink. 

“Hi,” I sit down at the table, watching him shyly. It’s a pantomime of sorts, I’m not shy in this aesthetic, but I like the response that it inspires. 

“Lemme buy your next one,” he gestures at the drink I’m sipping, “I got my bonus today.”

My eyes crease as I smile and I nod quickly, “Thank you, that sounds great! Where do you work?”

He begins the standard explanation of his company and I find myself tuning in and out. His face is lightly flushed, his cheeks are the reddest, and his dark hair stands out against them. It’s on the longer side, but not all that much. His eyes are dark and roving. He clearly hasn’t been home since he left for work, common for the demographic, his suit is rumpled, he has circles under his eyes. If everything works out as I’m expecting, the night will be enjoyable, but efficient. It would likely be kindest to steer him towards taking me home sooner rather than later. 

He’s finished extolling the virtues of his company, not that it’s particularly virtuous, but his commitment is more so. He moves closer to me. I sit my drink down and leave my hand on the table for him to take if he’s interested. 

“You look so beautiful tonight,” his tone is nearly one of familiarity, and while that can’t be accurate, it is pleasant. It’s nice to imagine a history. 

“Th-thank you,” a girlish stutter, part, again, of playing up my uncertainty. 

“My mother would be proud if I had a wife like you,” he grins broadly, reaching to pat my hair, before holding my hand.

This isn’t on the table, and would be quickly found to be false, if it were. But it makes sense, he’s intoxicated and starved for appropriate socialization. So many people are in our industrialized society. I can’t be salvation for him, a loving wife to tend the home he never comes to, maybe even raise children he never sees, keeps contact with his parents- it’s a beautiful life idea, just not one open to me, by accident of birth, but I can be company for tonight. 

“I don’t think I know you quite well enough to marry you,” I giggle, taking another sip, “Let’s start by getting to know each other.” 

“I can already tell you’ll make a good wife,” the alcohol is keeping him confident, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t just the right type of compliment. Perhaps even better than the ones I’m fishing for. 

“You don’t even know my name…” I lean in flirtatiously, allowing just a slight sample of the closeness he’ll get if everything goes well. 

“I don’t need to!” he declares, making a show of looking at my face, “I’ll call you… Mei! It means beautiful in Chinese and you are very beautiful.” 

I’ve never been named before, well, not since I was unable to remember, of course. Why not? It’s not as though it matters, and Mei is lovely. I take another drink and nod quickly, “That’s fine! You really think I’m so pretty?” 

“The prettiest girl here!” he nods and leans in to kiss my cheek, it feels a bit rough, but I don’t object, “The prettiest girl in the world! You must come home with me!” 

That’s sudden to be asking, but I’m not sure what allowing someone to rename you communicates, it’s simply never come up before. I’m not going to decline, though I haven’t even finished my first drink. 

“Oh! Al-alright,” my presentation is mildly uncertain but excited. 

He leads me, rising from the table with difficulty, then pulling me toward the door. The bar tender winks and waves me out. I’ll have to make sure to come back and tip well soon, I usually spend a little more here. 

We don’t talk much on the walk to the subway, he rambles some about how he suspects I’m a good cook and would be a good mother as well as a wife. It’s clear he has plans out for years, but they’ll evaporate with the drunkenness. I’m a bit worried about the necessary disclosure that I don’t have the appropriate equipment to birth his children, but I suppose that will happen how it does, regardless. 

Once we’re seated, he pulls me mostly onto his lap. Such displays are relatively uncommon here, but as long as we don’t make too much of a scene, nobody should say anything. He’s blessedly content to kiss my neck, an indiscretion that can be hidden by my hair, and a quiet one. 

His apartment is near the station, and exactly as expected. A soulless, functional living space. There’s a kitchen with nothing but drinks, a kotatsu and fairly obviously never used television. Then a bedroom, with a bed, a dresser, and nothing descript about either one. It will work for the purpose. I perch on the edge of the bed and watch him undress. 

“I’ll buy a better house when we marry,” he tells me, to excuse the space. I smile reassuringly, but don’t comment. 

“I can buy you anything you like, Mei. You should have everything,” he rambles on. It’s one of the conventional justifications of a lifestyle based on working too much. I’m thinking too much on his feelings to properly relax into mine, but this is a beautiful encounter regardless. 

“Come sit with me? I’m sure you’re tense… I can rub your shoulders?” I smile shyly and gesture for him to join me on the bed. 

He nods gratefully and comes over, wearing only his boxers now. He sits in front of me and my hands light on his back, gently probing along for tension, and begin kneading the knots I find there. My red nails stand out against his skin; I like how it looks. 

“Your hands are so soft,” he mumbles; I can feel him relaxing under my fingers. “Thank you, Mei. You’re so good to me.” 

“I want to be,” I whisper into his ear, entirely honest. I press closer to him while I work, and it isn’t long before he’s turning to kiss me, compliments falling from his lips without pause. 

“You’re such a pretty girl,” likely my favorite, “I love your hair,” a common refrain, “You’re so sweet,” this one gives me pause, but perhaps he’s right. “Your skin is so smooth,” accurate for the parts he’s been touching. “You have the prettiest lips,” another common observation. 

Eventually his hands find themselves tugging slightly at my dress, and he says “Can I?” and I’m faced with a decision. He’s going to find out that I’m not quite what he’s expecting in just a moment, but I can control how. I could say nothing at all and let him discover it on his own, and this is likely the easiest, though most dangerous option. I could stop him and say it like it’s something serious. I could just quickly tell him casually. But I’m not sure precisely what to say. What’s accurate, what will communicate the right information, and I’m running out of time. I need to make a decision about what to do, but it’s slipping away. I’m choosing the path of inaction, that’s so commonly my decision. One hopes it won’t hurt. 

I move to allow it and he lifts my skirt, then pauses, seemingly eyeing the slight bulge in my panties. His face twists in confusion, then displeasure, and his open hand collides with my face. 

“I thought you were a girl!” he objects and shoves me down on the bed, “I wanted this!” 

Tears sting my eyes, but my hands reach up to pat him soothingly, “It’s alright, no one has to know. I can be your girl for tonight, it wouldn’t have lasted anyway. Just let me be Mei, I’ll make you feel good. We can be happy,” I hadn’t meant to say so much, but it seems to have been a good idea. His anger is evaporating, faced with the reality of what his actions here mean. If he stops this, he’ll be alone. And I’ve made a good argument, likely especially with the idea that it can be a secret. 

“Mei… Mei is a good girl,” he smiles again, then pulls me in to kiss the blossoming bruise on my cheek. My mask will hide it in the daylight, nothing to worry about. “It’s not Mei’s fault she can’t have children for me.” 

I smile slightly and brush the tears away, ready to make good on my offer. I reach over to trail my fingers down his skin. 

“You would still be a good wife,” he says with a tone of finality and my tears take on a different tone; it means more than I can say to hear. “You’re a good girl. My good, pretty girl.” I wonder if he feels guilty for smacking me. If only he knew what a mild reaction that was. 

I draw him fully against me and move us to lie down, reaching to move his boxers out of the way. He strokes my hair while I stroke his penis, he mumbles “Pretty girl, pretty girl,” until the vocalizations turn to moans. I hide my face against his neck, kissing there, while I stroke him. 

He hardens under my touch and I kiss my way down, leaving lipstick prints on his chest and stomach. He pets my head and I close my lips around his dick and swirl my tongue. His eyes are fluttering closed and I wonder if he’ll fall asleep before I’m even finished. 

I suck gently and he’s cumming down my throat before I even have much time to set up a rhythm. Am I that good? Or is he just easy? This ultimately matters very little, but it’s an interesting thought. I swallow then raise my head to see what he’d like to do now. 

“My Mei,” he opens his arms to reach for me, “Come here.” 

I oblige and come up to snuggle into his arms. He shifts with some difficulty, but wraps a blanket around us. I would typically assume a bit more sex would be to come, but he’s tired enough that this may have been satisfying, and perhaps he’s wanting to avoid the reminder. That’s alright with me, the attention is a bit more important than the physical sex, in a lot of ways. 

“Pretty girl, I love you,” he stifles a yawn, pressing his face against my shoulder, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” I smile, “you’re beautiful.”

I decide to stay until he’s good and deeply asleep, then I’ll freshen up and head out again, the night is still young and there are plenty of other men who’ll be happy to take me home.


End file.
